


Rolling with the Punches

by thymos



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thymos/pseuds/thymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three shorts of Rahm, Barack and their -perfectly normal- relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rolling with the Punches

**Author's Note:**

> Re-post from Rahmbamarama (http://rahmbamarama.livejournal.com/32197.html#cutid1) after I got all wistful about the halcyon days of 2008 and how perfect it was with these two still redonkculously unreal men.

**i.**

The first punch, it feels like a divine blessing.

 

He told Rahm, I need you to do this. You’re the only one who can and who will.

 

Rahm doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Barack, intensely, with those eyes drilling into the back of his skull. Then he lines his fist up with cold precision, swings, and drives it deep into Barack’s gut.

 

When Barack stumbles, Rahm is there to catch him, screaming in his ear, “You motherfucker. You sick fucking moron I’ve told you I’m never doing that again, never, you selfish _bastard_.”

 

They are on the couch, with Barack leaning into Rahm, letting his eyes close as the smaller man wraps one arm around his side to feel for damanges, muttering, “This was supposed to be over. I swear to God, if you make me hurt you again I’ll kill you, I will really fucking kill you.”

 

****

ii.

 

The doors of the offices they work in have no locks. It was a policy Barack likes, especially in moments like this, when he walks in on Rahm in the middle of one of his sessions. 

 

Rahm Emanuel does not do yoga. What he does, is something resembling a slow ballet across his office, furniture shoved to the ends and carpet rolled carelessly to the side. Barack shuts the door, as Rahm ignores his presence and executes a flawless pirouette in the middle of the polished parquet. 

 

Barack counts the number of turns, absently noting the undulating clenching and unclenching of his abdominal muscles. It’s as therapeutic as the pirouettes are themselves. Rahm is music in motion whatever he does, mostly it is Beethoven's 5th, except with liberal profanities, but the elegance of him dancing is pure Bach.

 

Rahm stops, en pointe, and lowers himself steadily to his feet. He holds out one hand with a faint smirk. “May I have this dance, princess?”

 

Barack smiles, and accepts.

 

****

iii.

 

Barack believes he has never seen Rahm Emanuel sleep. Amy attests that indeed he does, sometimes, although even she admits she’s never actually seen him fall asleep. So Barack, even though he really, really needs Rahm’s input on this one document, stays very silent from the other end of the room and instead watches.

 

He is fairly sure watching his newly-minted Chief of Staff nurse a steaming mug of black coffee at 2am in the morning is not the healthiest of activities for the future leader of the free world. But at the moment, watching the steam unfurl and mingle among Rahm’s grey hair and his lips purse over the rim of the cup, ever-rimmed eyes wincing as the scalding liquid hits the skin, seems like the only logical pursuit he can think of. Barack has counted, and this is probably the 5th cup of the hour, and with each cup the effect is wearing thin. 

 

His lashes, short and heavy, flutter briefly, straining the vessels in his somehow still-alert eyes. Barack watches him fight it, fascinated by the silent battle of Rahm against the visceral weaknesses of his body, and finally sees his shoulders slump slightly in defeat. 

 

Barack moves, silently, swiftly across the room, in time to catch Rahm as he all but falls into the desk. Rahm jolts awake at this, and blinks furiously into consciousness. 

 

“I’ve got you,” Barack grins.

 

Rahm groans, dips a finger into the coffee and flicks the liquid at him. “Goddamned Superman.”

 

_**end** _


End file.
